


Drinking Alone Together

by Lightspeed



Series: Monstrous Intent [40]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Angst, Awkwardness, Drinking, Dullahan Soldier, Dullahans, Heartache, Kitsune, Kitsune Spy, M/M, Play Fighting, Post-Break Up, Reconciliation, Regret, Reminiscing, Snow and Ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: A messy breakup is bad enough, but it's worse when time has softened the motivations and leaves both partners with a deep longing for one another but no idea how to reconcile the crimes they have committed against one another, or what balm their own wounds truly need.  Demoman's sick of drinking alone, so Soldier joins him, and they can drink alone together.





	

Evenings seemed to be forever, nights utterly eternal in the frozen mountains. Work days were short, sunlight as precious a resource as the gravel they warred over. Fighting was done in short, hyper-kinetic bursts of activity, half a desperate scrabble for victory, half letting out the pent-up energy that the long hours of wintry darkness had wound into both teams' very bones.

How did they mine gravel this far up in the mountains, anyway?

Soldier shook his head, dispelling any suppositions that arose from that thought. Questioning orders was the road to mutiny, and he would be no better than a civilian without loyalty to his commanders.

He was no civilian.

He grit his teeth and continued his trudge through the snow, eyes wide and alert. The shadows and shade were a strange, tricky thing at Coldfront. Trees and cliffs abound at all sides, providing plenty of cover, but on an even slightly clear night, the moon and stars would shine upon the snow, making its whiteness nearly luminescent, an eerie glow that made it nearly impossible to hide without serious training or camouflage. Neither of which Soldier had on hand.

Hell, he usually hated the concept of stealth. It was cowardly. Your enemy should know you were coming, so he could put up a proper fight as you killed him. Dying with dignity was important, and a loud, noisy death, screaming and covered in blood, was a noble way to die. None of that quietly in your bed surrounded by family crap.

But this wasn't a fight. Or at least, he hoped to God it wasn't. Though it might be. He wasn't really sure anymore. All he knew was he was supposed to meet the RED Demoman half a kilometer west of the central point, down the mountain and in the forest.

 

It had been an awkward moment, catching that RED bastard stalking through the side tunnel of the base, trying to get the drop on Engineer as he upgraded the sentry he was using to guard the warehouse dock.

Soldier had seen the blur of red enter and charged in after him. He'd gone for melee, swinging with his shovel only to embed its sharpened side into the cracked cement of the wall. It wasn't deep, just awkwardly wedged, and almost immediately the fight had turned into a hand-to-hand brawl, which was comprised mostly of sloppy wrestling and punching.

It was almost a minute of battling for dominance before both men realized they had ceased actually trying to kill one another, and were simply trying to pin the other man or get him to cry uncle. Demoman had asked him why he'd been holding back.

“I...no I'm not,” Soldier had replied, lying through his grit teeth.

Demoman had laughed at that, and Soldier had joined him, though they still struggled on the floor. It felt like old times. Like when they would hoot and holler, alcohol on their breaths, competition in their veins, bragging rights on the line, as they tumbled over furniture and onto the floor, somewhere between playing and fighting, and always for fun. Soldier saw it in Demoman's eye, and he grinned, gums bleeding over his teeth from a punch that had slipped past his defenses. Footsteps echoed at the end of the hall, muffled as they were, and Demoman knew it would be over soon. Those were the footfalls of a Spy. They were loud enough to hear, but too quiet for anyone else's heavy steps, which meant he was making sure Soldier could tell help was on the way. The bomber leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his enemy's ear, and murmured, “Half klick west o' centre point. There's a wee shack in the woods where I like tae drink off base on days like these.”

He gurgled as Spy's knife sank into his back, and went limp, heavy upon Soldier's body. The Frenchman rolled the RED's corpse off of his teammate, careful to tuck his balisong away before extending a hand to help Soldier up. “Did the two of you have a pleasant conversation?”

“We did not—”

“I was cloaked at the entrance since nearly the beginning of your little...tussle. I decided not to interrupt. Such a tragedy it wasn't more of a show. I do so love the idea of rough, hungry battlefield trysts! Enemy grinding upon enemy in the heat of combat, adrenaline and lust burning in their veins!” Spy smirked, watching the flush that had already risen to Soldier's cheeks darken. “I did always wonder if the undead could blush.”

Soldier opened his mouth to yell, to belligerently dress Spy down about his insubordination, but the kitsune cloaked, and was on his way, the smell of smoke and the corpse of the enemy Demoman the only trace of his having been there. With a heavy sigh, Soldier looked to the corpse at his feet and watched as a red light subsumed it and stole it away, leaving just a stain on the floor as it spirited the bomber's body away to respawn.

The rest of the work day had gone by as usual, but left Soldier feeling odd. Floating, unsure, and lost. Trepidation drowned out a tiny kernel of hope that threatened to flare to life from embers in his dead heart, keeping the tinder too moist to catch. He couldn't afford to let himself think this was something it wasn't; that there was anything left to rekindle.

But God, did he wish there was.

 

Soldier arrived at a small shack in the trees, far enough down the mountain that the winds would carry any smoke away before it climbed enough to be seen from the bases. It was a clever place to be alone, nearly undetectable by the nearby teams unless one made a real ruckus, and while Demoman was more than capable of that, this was clearly more of a drinking alone spot than a clubhouse. The soft light of a fire flickered trough the cracks in the shack's wood, shining out of its single, heavily plastic-covered window. At least he knew it was occupied.

One thing Soldier never had to do was screw up his courage before undertaking some ill-advised stunt. He was made of courage. Courage comprised roughly 87% of his corporeal form. Spy would scoff something about stupidity, but Soldier knew what he was about. Even here, as nervous energy gripped his undead heart, part of the disguise that gave him a face to set into a determined grimace, he strode up to that shack and knocked.

There was a stumbling sound from within, boots on the wooden floor, and after what seemed like the longest moment of Soldier's unlife, the door cracked just enough for a brown eye to peer through.

“Ye alone?”

“I brought along my entire team to meet with the enemy in secret,” Soldier deadpanned, dropping a bit of the stiffness from his posture.

The door closed, but Soldier was sure he could hear a short snort of laughter from behind it before a chain was undone and the door reopened to allow him entry. Without hesitation, he stepped inside, turning to see the Scot locking and chaining the door behind him. “Surprised ye came, honestly.”

“Surprised you invited me,” Soldier murmured in reply.

Blue eyes seemed to bore into a single brown one, and they stood for a long moment, just staring at one another. Now that they were both here, neither was particularly sure what to do.

Soldier knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to surged forward, take that beautiful Scotsman into his strong arms, and kiss him until he was gasping for breath. He wanted to press his forehead to Demoman's, overcome and grateful, and promise never to hurt him again, to protect him, to forgive him and beg forgiveness in return. He wanted to lay him down on the threadbare couch that sat in front of the shack's shoddily-bricked fireplace and study every inch of that perfect body with his lips, to revisit every freckle and mole and birthmark, every curve and angle, each of which was still seared into his memory, aching and raw like an hours-old burn.

Instead, he stared, his mouth dry, his palms sweaty, and suddenly he very much hated all the signs of life his body displayed when he wore a head. He would have preferred the cold stillness of undeath to the near-painful racing of his heart. It's not like it actually needed to push blood through his veins anyway.

Demoman was the first to look away, stalking over to the couch, which joined a small table in one corner as the only real furniture in the tiny shack. It was heaped with blankets and quilts, all old and ratty, and had a few mysterious stains. On the floor beside it sat a bottle of whiskey, open and a quarter empty. The bomber plopped down on the couch and tugged a blanket over his shoulders, then looked to Soldier. He raised an eyebrow and pointed to the cushion beside him with his chin in invitation.

Soldier didn't need to be told, and joined him, taking an offered blanket in spite of not really needing it. His brows lifted when he saw the bottle. “Not scrumpy tonight?”

“Not enough veg in the rations up here. Scrumpy's too much apple for me gut tae handle without it.”

“Cold like this, nobody needs shitsicles,” Soldier snorted.

“Waddle out the latrine needin' a chisel,” Demoman agreed, snickering. He lifted the bottle and took a draught, then offered it to the BLU beside him.

Soldier nodded in thanks and took a swig, passing it back. “Thanks.”

“Nae danger.”

“I mean for inviting me.”

“Don't get all touchy-feely, ye daft yankee. Just sick o' drinkin' alone is all.”

A smirk crossed the American's face as he watched Demoman out of the corner of his eye. The bomber kept his gaze on the fire, but he could see it there, the inscrutable softening of his demeanor at the word 'alone'.

So they drank together.

Soldier's fingers itched. He wanted to bridge the gap of space between them, to reach out, lay his hand atop the Scot's, to lace their fingers and squeeze his hand and pull him across that insurmountable distance into his arms. He wanted to warm him like the fire couldn't, with warm kisses to his temple and a nose in his hair.

He wanted to say he was sorry. To throw those fucking boots Miss Pauling had given him into the fire. He offered Demoman the bottle back after a swig.

Demoman took it, his fingertips grazing the other man's, warmth scorching his skin with shame. He lifted the bottle to his lips and gulped down a deep draught with nary a wince. He was already pickled enough to not worry about the burn of the harsh, cheap hooch. Not when he was too busy holding back the rush of emotions that so frequently came with the dizzy comfort alcohol provided him when he'd overindulged. It was hard not to drink too much. Not when it was so important to him, a shield of lowered inhibitions and excuses for his sloppy behaviour, chasing back his demons with a sword made of rye mash. Even if it did put leaks in the dam he used to hold back all of the tears he had spent his life storing away.

The man across the couch was responsible for gallons and gallons.

The liquor gave him a fighting chance. Inside, it pushed away the things he would have to Deal With. Outside, it brought him a grimace to bear the slings and sometimes literal arrows his life and the enemy team fired against him. Nobody in his line of work would do the mad things he did while in their right mind, though Demoman wasn't sure if he'd ever not been in the wrong mind.

He remembered a few times when drinking made him smile. Warm desert nights far from civilization, taking pot shots and funny-shaped cacti with heavy ordinance and ducking the needle-covered splatter like gore from a porcupine. Trips to tourist traps, snapping photos of natural wonders and gimmicky exhibits. Ball games, where a man could be loud and rowdy without a care, a paper bowl of nachos cradled in one arm, his other around his best mate.

Then there was a night in Vegas, after gambling and carousing, a heady buzz still remaining from a day of getting up to no good, after ditching the pretty girls who had hung all over them assuming it would get them free things. (For their entertaining companionship, it had.) The stars were invisible under the haze of neon, and the roof of the hotel was barred and not accessible to the public. Neither of them had particularly cared about that as they'd barged out anyway, looking out over man's neon-slathered paradise in the middle of the desert.

They'd known a lot about paradises in the desert.

A bottle of top-shelf bourbon shared between them, they had spent more time than they bothered to track talking and laughing, falling all over one another.

When Soldier had interrupted him mid-sentence by kissing him, it had been so natural, so right. He'd closed his eye and dropped the bourbon, needing both hands to paw at the broad American making his heart soar.

He could still remember the drunken stumble back to their hotel room, fairly tittering as they failed to keep their hands to themselves, and how they barely made it to the bed before they were rolling around, naked and trading who was on top as they ground together. The hangover the next morning was worth it, spent in each other's arms, miserable together.

And here they were, now. For entirely different reasons, miserable together.

Demoman took some solace in that, handing back the bottle of cheap rotgut.

Another swig, another burn, another question Soldier didn't bother to ask about what his undead body did with the things he ingested. Instead, he stole another glance of the bomber's handsome face. His full, soft lips, his curly hair, his single eye glittering in the firelight, moist with sadness that he refused to express in front of his former lover. His former mortal enemy.

Soldier wondered, if things had been different, if he'd been the one in RED instead of the living guy who hoards raccoons, or if BLU's Demoman were this beautiful man instead of his werewolf friend, if they would have lasted. If there had been no War between them, no cause for it, would he have had the guts to tell him what he really was? Would he have been able to tell this wonderful man that the wizard who had stolen half his sight had saved Soldier from oblivion twenty-odd years ago? Would Demoman have embraced him, counting himself fortunate that the dullahan even existed? Or would he have spurned the dead man, the unnatural monster, as just another thing that Merasmus and the arcane has corrupted and perverted?

Would he have looked into the void that was Soldier's true inside and seen wondrous beauty or yawning horror?

It had been so much easier to just believe The Administrator when she'd told him his love had betrayed him. It was easier to convince himself that it was true than to face rejection on the basis of his very existence, rather than some falsified insults and competing contracts.

After all, they were supposed to be enemies this whole time.

Soldier passed Demoman the bottle, and for a long moment, didn't let go. Their fingers brushed, and Soldier did not let the other man pull away. Demoman looked up to meet his eyes, and his face was screwed up in a mix of regret and accusation. How dare Soldier try to make him face this. How dare he be here, invited here, told to come. How dare he have the decency to show up, to make him think there was hope in this awkward crapshot of an idea.

Nostrils flared, and Soldier sniffed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, before he released the bottle. Demoman pulled it to his chest like he'd rescued it from theft, and stared at him for a long, hard moment. Both men settled into a strange, inscrutable discomfort. Both wanted to launch at the other in a flurry of apologies and kisses. Both men wanted to run and keep running. Both men wanted to punch the other son of a bitch right in the goddamn mouth.

Demoman shivered under his threadbare blanket, and Soldier scooted closer. He draped his blanket over the bomber, letting him share the false heat his body produced when disguised, but kept enough distance to not make contact. Baby steps. The bomber nodded in thanks, took a swig, and offered the bottle back, turning his attention to the fire once again.

A ghost of a smile tugged weakly at the corner of Soldier's mouth as he took the bottle and raised it in acknowledgment. With a drink, he joined Demoman in his loneliness, gazing into the fire.


End file.
